


Thrall

by horrorsilk



Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls Online
Genre: Gender-neutral Reader, Kinktober, Light Bondage, Other, i think, there's plot if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26851297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horrorsilk/pseuds/horrorsilk
Summary: You've heard the story ever since you were a child, when your mother told it to you before bed.But yet here you are, and you pray that you might feel the Worm King's awful touch.For Kinktober 2020 prompt: bondage
Relationships: Mannimarco (Elder Scrolls)/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947808
Comments: 1
Kudos: 30





	Thrall

_"Children, listen as the shadows cross your sleeping hutch,  
And the village sleeps away, streets emptied of the crowds,  
And the moons do balefully glare through the nightly clouds,  
And the graveyard's people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep,  
Listen and you'll hear the whispered tap of the footsteps creep,  
Then pray you'll never feel the Worm King's awful touch." _

Your mother used to recount the tale when you'd misbehave; perhaps she thought it would keep you from sneaking out of your window at night. Keep you from slipping into the dark to dance in the moonlight and chase fireflies. But you were never the most obedient child, and even threats of the Worm King and his army of shambling corpses couldn't keep you from your nightly escapades. 

But as the years passed and you grew older, the forays into the night air grew less innocent and more dangerous, and before long you left your home and never looked back. You'd outgrown the village, no longer wishing to be confined by the closed minds and muzzled hearts housed in the shabby huts. Your destiny lay elsewhere, and with your inclination towards the arcane arts, it didn't take you long to radiate towards the larger holds, craving ever more knowledge. The Mages Guild was glad to let you study with them, even naming you as one of their own, praising your prowess, encouraging your gift.

You outgrew them, too.

You'd climbed their little ladders of imagined importance, and that left you here. For the once-great Mages Guild was no more than another group of witless ingrates, happy to hand their tethers to any who would hold them, so long as they in turn were granted even a smidgeon of power. They were worthless, meaningless. You were destined for greater things, greater powers.

This craving for knowledge had been your undoing. The stories of the Worm King, Mannimarco, had never left your mind even since childhood, and the rumours of a cult of necromancers practicing far from the prying eyes of the guild awakened the dark curiosity housed within the deepest recesses of your mind. The Order of the Black Worm, whose name struck fear into the hearts of many, was a siren's call, and you sought them out, if only to ease your own undeniable interest. There were so many stories told of their various exploits, the ways they had pulled the strings of history so many times before; and even wilder still were the tales of the King of Worms. 

He was spoken of as wicked, a bogeyman to frighten small children into behaving. But he hadn't scared you before, and so there was nothing to deter you now. Was the lich called Mannimarco still leading the cult? Or had he truly died in the great battle against Vanus Galerion? You needed to know.

* * *

"Wake." The cold voice and even colder touch brings you to your senses, eyes snapping open as you realize you are bound, back flat against some kind of stone slab. 

Blinking, you try to move your arms, but the ropes around your wrists were tight, and so you can do little more than squirm against the bonds. Someone is touching you, their hands cold as ice as they grab your face like a vice, wrenching you to face them.

"Who are you?" Again the voice makes you shudder, but for a number of reasons. And you struggle to breathe as you realize just who it was that had you roped down.

"Mannimarco," you gasp, eyes wide out of fear and something else you don't want to think about. The grip on your face tightens. 

" _You_ are not Mannimarco, you pathetic vermin, _I_ am he," the necromancer spits. "And if you feel it is necessary to address me, you will do so properly. For I am the King of Worms. Now, you will tell me who you are or I will have my undead feast on your entrails."

You wince, and his fingers release your face, allowing you to speak freely. Voice ragged, you somehow manage to force out your name, but the answer doesn't seem to satisfy the Worm King. He continues his questioning, demanding to know who sent you and why. How was it that you found his followers in the first place? You don't really know how to answer that; it was a mixture of dumb luck, after all, but there are also parts of your memory that almost seem like they're missing.

"I am no threat," you insist, still tugging fruitlessly against your bonds. "I came to seek out your Order to learn. And - " You stop yourself before you can say anything foolish. After all, you are insignificant, and there would be nothing stopping the Worm King from enslaving you in undeath. 

He sees through your faltering words, however, and grabs your throat, squeezing until you cannot breathe. "And?" You know you must answer or he will kill you here and now.

"I needed to see you."

To your surprise, he seems amused, letting go of your throat and circling around to stand at your feet, where you have to crane your neck to try and keep him in view. "See me?" he asks, voice a hiss. "Flattery will not keep me from destroying you, but perhaps it might give you a few more meager moments to contemplate the depths of your mistake in coming here. Speak."

You squirm, fully aware of how intense his gaze is on you now, pale eyes shining in the low torchlight. Still, voice raspy, shaking, you tell him of the tales told by your mother in the dark of night. How the village children would dare each other to cross the graveyard at night, but none ever did out of fear that the Worm King would burst forth from the earth and drag them down to rot. How you yourself never feared such ridiculous things, but instead found the idea morbidly fascinating. Found yourself wondering what it might feel like to bask in the presence of the great Lich, Mannimarco. And here you were now, tied down to a stone table in some crypt, at the mercy of the Worm King himself.

Again you shiver; no matter what the poem said, you found your flesh craving to feel the Worm King's awful touch.

It was a craving satisfied for only a moment as Mannimarco circled back around to your head, slender fingers grabbing a fistful of your hair, tugging your head back sharply to bare your throat. Somewhere in your mind's eye you picture him slicing through your neck with a cruel dagger, but instead you feel his free hand tracing over the contour of your jaw, pausing as they trail down to where your pulse throbs below your skin. He seems fascinated with this, and you wonder if it might be because he himself is no longer truly alive. If you touched his pale throat, would you find a pulse? 

His hand slips lower, pushing open the folds of the mage's robes you wear, your heaving chest bare and covered in goosebumps as the cold air seeps over the skin. Clever fingers circle the left side of your chest, clearly seeking out your heartbeat, but when the pad of his thumb swipes over an already taut nipple you can't hold back a sharp gasp. Mannimarco laughs cruelly, undoubtedly finding your reaction pathetic. Still, he repeats the motion, tugging at the bud until you're struggling against your bonds again, the shoddy ropes biting into the soft skin of your wrists. 

Tiring of your chest, Mannimarco shoves your robes open the rest of the way, examining your abdomen with an almost disinterested look before his gaze falls on your hips. His palm presses to your groin and immediately you shove yourself forward, desperate for even the fleeting contact. Again the Worm King lets loose a cruel laugh, but rubs his palm against your sex, and even through the fabric the pressure makes you keen. His free hand tangles in your hair again, tugging painfully on it, and he bends at the waist, teeth digging bluntly against your pulse. 

It is that, paired with his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your pants and touching your arousal directly that sends you over the edge. Every muscle in your already tired body tenses, your back arching up off of the stone below as you cry his name again and again. As you collapse against the cold slab and struggle to keep yourself from whimpering like a wanton trollop, you're vaguely aware of Mannimarco licking his fingers clean. With a final merciless laugh, he vanishes into the dark, leaving you there, shaking and alone, but you do hear his voice one last time before the room is silent and empty;

_"Until next time, pet."_

* * *

"Wake up!" Someone is shaking you, and you sit bolt upright, blinking in the sunlight. "Are you okay? You were laying on the side of the road; my husband brought you here so we could see if we might be able to help you."

You glance around, confused; you're in a cozy little farmhouse by the look of it, sitting in a straw bed and surrounded by several obviously worried people. The farmer, his wife, and a few children. Were you dreaming, then? Perhaps you'd gone too long without eating again and fainted. Only you would fantasize about a necromancer after dashing your head upon the stones. 

"Here, let's get those washed up. Damn bandits; the watch doesn't come out here nearly as often as they should." The portly woman titters and sends her daughter to fetch some hot water and rags.

"I'm sorry, what?" you ask, still trying to figure out what was happening.

"Just going to clean your wrists, dear. Those rope burns look painful."

You glance down and indeed your wrists have been worn raw, the skin angry red and bleeding in a few places. Feeling your cheeks heat, you shake your head and pull away.

"No, no, that's fine. I'm fine," you say quickly, pulling yourself to stand. Perhaps you ought to let them tend to your wounds, but part of you likes the idea of the scars they'll leave; a reminder of what actually happened. "I should go."

The family calls after you, pleading with you to stay where it was safe, or at least wait until morning before going, but you ignore them. You tug your hood further down your head and plunge out into the sunset. Before taking the road, however, you pause by a water trough, pulling open the front of your robes so you could examine your throat. There, just above your pulse, were the unmistakable marks of teeth. 

Softly, as you pick a direction to walk in, unsure of your destination but trusting it would lead you where you wished to go, you murmur under your breath the poem your mother told you so many years ago. The tale that brought you here, and was like a prayer now.

_"And the graveyard's people rest, we hope, in eternal sleep,_   
_Listen and you'll hear the whispered tap of the footsteps creep,_   
_Then pray you'll never feel the Worm King's awful touch."_

**Author's Note:**

> I've never written an x Reader fic before so I really do hope it wasn't too awkward??


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